13 June 2008

All over Edinburgh, the same grey cobbles. Between the cobbles, tiny valleys of dirt. Where people often walk, or cars run, nothing grows. In any area sheltered from traffic, you can see these tiny gardens forming: grass and moss and even flowers. Green is tough. This photo was taken at sunset.

Yes, technically, this is part of the Germany series of photos: but mainly I was thinking of Terry Pratchett.

He looked up.

Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom.

He stared.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days . . .

He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room. – Night Watch, Terry Pratchett, 2003

Terry Pratchett has Alzheimer’s. Sooner or later, every writer must stop writing: Death is the ultimate writer’s block. Alzheimer’s will steal not life but memory. Dementia – of which Alzheimer’s is just one form – steals memory, transforms personalities, kills everything that makes a person themselves before they die. Dementia is the Auditor: Death is only the end.

(If you are a UK tax payer, as a registered charity they can claim the taxes you would have paid on this, which adds to the value of your gift: so, if you live outside the UK, please look for a research charity in your own country and donate there.)